


After Pelennor

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), First Time, M/M, Rough Sex, battlefield gore, relief sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas panics when he can't find Gimli after the Pelennor.  Gimli also needs reassurance that Legolas is alive and well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Pelennor

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [2000GigolasFics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2000GigolasFics) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> After the battle of your choice (Helm's Deep? Pelennor Fields?), Legolas and Gimli have frantic, desperate, oh my god neither of us died, let's prove we're still alive sex. 
> 
> Straight-up PWP, bonus points for feelings creeping in alongside.

Legolas nocks an arrow on the string, but a sudden hush has fallen, and there is nothing left to shoot. He stands taut, the muscles in his shoulders quivering with exhaustion as he casts about for foes.

None are left.

The river runs red.

Everywhere crows wheel and call, carrion birds circling in drifts and banks over the smoking remains of the Pelennor. They have begun to settle in for feasting.

_Gimli._

Legolas whirls, but he is the only one who stands for many feet around. Fighting continues far afield, the last remnants of the Southrons and Haradrim covering their retreat as best they can. He could pursue, but….

_Gimli._

None can see to rival an elf, but Legolas can find no sign of the dwarf: no ruddy hair, no flash of axe. No curses or shouts or clashing of metal can be heard. 

He begins to run, spiraling out, peering desperately under collapsed carcasses of trolls and _mûmakil_.

He finds Gimli in the shade of one vast beast, chopping into the neck of a downed orc that was still stirring.

“Gimli!” He seizes his friend’s shoulder, an ill-judged act of pure relief. Gimli glares up at him, wild-eyed, still half-berserk from battle rage. Gimli halts the instinctive swing of his axe just in time. He drops it in haste. 

“Legolas!” Gimli’s hand shoots up and the fist knots in his hair. Gimli drags him down. Their foreheads knock together, and Legolas thinks at first it is the dwarvish greeting he knows well.

It is not.

Gimli lifts his chin; his teeth clash with Legolas’s, drawing blood from the elf’s lip. His hand seizes firmly behind Legolas’s neck.

Legolas is still for a long moment, stunned. Gimli’s tongue forces his mouth open and pushes inside. A shiver thrills through him, the dregs of adrenaline kindling to flame. He wakes from his trance and his own hands shoot out to fist in the dwarf’s surcoat, dragging him up onto his toes. 

They bite at each other’s lips with relief, almost savage; Gimli’s hands rip futilely at Legolas’s leather and Legolas in turn wrestles with the dwarf’s heavy armor. Conversation is beyond them; all is heat and breath and desperate, frantic haste to claim what they might so easily have lost. 

_Alive._

Gimli drags them down, using his weight to force Legolas to his knees. They collapse on what is left of the grass, trampled down and crushed to mud under many booted feet. The corpse of the _mûmak_ is shelter, of a sort. 

Legolas is hard, his body fierce with need. Gimli breaks the lacings of his breeches, exposing his cock. He sets a hand on it to verify its urgency, its desire. He gives Legolas a swift, rough squeeze, then turns him. One strong hand pushes his shoulders down. 

Legolas has longed for this since Lórien. He would rejoice, but there is no time for that, no room for doubt or fear. He glances over his shoulder and sees Gimli free himself, thrusting his breeches down in haste. His cock springs out, thick and flushed with heat, gleaming moisture at the tip, a thatch of wiry red hair glimpsed at the base. 

Legolas swallows, his throat suddenly dry with more than the fatigue of battle. He scrabbles in his quiver for the oil he uses to care for his leather. He fumbles the cork, dropping it, and shoves the flask behind him, into Gimli’s waiting hand. 

Gimli slicks himself with a quick push through his fist and grasps Legolas’s hips with hands that bruise in the eagerness of their need. He drives in with a low, hungry growl. Legolas throws his head back with a wild cry; it hurts, but it is wanted. He is still alive to hurt; he is still here to feel pain and pleasure and lust... and love. 

Whimpering, he pushes back, asking for more of the rough fucking, the affirmation of shared life. Gimli’s arm comes around his waist to hold him steady. Then they are rocking together in brutal, searing perfection, negating the blood and death that surrounds them. 

Gimli utters low, growling moans, guttural counterpoint to Legolas’s sharper cries. None are by to hear. The heat and strength of their coupling drives back the wild adrenaline of battle, but keeps exhaustion from settling in its place. The exquisite lustful vitality of Gimli’s body plowing deep inside Legolas eclipses the scent of blood and shit and death that chokes the empty battlefield. 

Legolas wails encouragement to the smoke-stained sky, bracing both hands in the mud-and-blood filth of the battlefield. Too soon it is over; Gimli spends deep inside him, throwing his head back with a roar. His hand finds Legolas’s shaft, yet unspent, and strips climax from him in swift, rough strokes. Legolas stripes the ground beneath his belly: fleeting jets of translucent pearl, the first seeds of life to reclaim the fields of the Pelennor in the wake of Sauron’s assault.

He falls, shivering, the last of his strength spent. 

Gimli gathers him up, the two of them lying on their sides in the shadow of the fallen _mûmak_. They do not stir for many long minutes. Legolas wonders what will change when they do.

Twilight is coming; the _mûmak_ ’s shadow stretches long, then fades as they rest. The sky grows dim and yet they lie together, each reveling quietly in the reassurance of the other’s steady heartbeat. Red fires glow amidst the lingering smoke and reek of battle.

Hardly daring to breathe, Legolas slides his hand along Gimli’s arm, which rests over his waist. He caresses the dwarf’s wrist with hesitant tenderness. His hand slowly creeps to cover Gimli’s, and the dwarf’s hand stirs in response.

Somewhere to the east Legolas hears cries of joy and of lamentation. Dead comrades are discovered. Living ones are celebrated. The standard of the king flies victorious above the broken bodies of the dead. 

Their fingers entwine and they arise at last, hand in hand.


End file.
